


set your old heart free

by slytherco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (very expensive furniture), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Antique Collector Draco Malfoy, Clothing Kink, Curse Breaker Harry Potter, Digital Art, Draco Malfoy in a flimsy (but expensive) robe, Fanart, Harry Potter in a uniform, Illustrated, Lawyer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rimming, Sex on Furniture, Siège d'Amour, a lust potion that doesn't have a chance of working
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/pseuds/slytherco
Summary: When Draco Malfoy, an esteemed prosecutor for the Wizengamot and an antique enthusiast extraordinaire, decided to donate some of his treasures for a good cause, he didn't expect that the ever-present bureaucracy will bring an old acquaintance back into his life: one Harry Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 366





	set your old heart free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shealwaysreads (onereader)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/gifts).



> For my dearest Bella—happy birthday, darling!
> 
> I cannot properly express how grateful I am to have you as a friend, how amazing it is that we've crossed paths. Every day, I am so, so glad you're such an important part of my life.
> 
> I wish you all things good and beautiful, and I thank you for being such a lovely presence, and a true friend.
> 
> (With that said, it was extremely hard not to show you the fic or the art I made for it before I post)
> 
> Huge thanks go to the Amazing Duo, Jen and Noella, for the beta, cheering, and emotional support. Also Marti and Jen for pointing out stuff in the drawing I would never catch. Love you guys lots <3

_The Ministry of Magic_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_London,_

_Dear Mr Malfoy,_

_Thank you for your inquiry. We are happy to hear you are eager to donate all the unique items and artefacts from the list you have provided to be auctioned in order to fund a new Mind-Healing Unit at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. We are glad you are informing us of the fact in advance, in accordance with the current legislation. The excerpt we base our letter on reads as follows:_

“Any magical artefacts _(to learn what constitutes an artefact, please refer to the Ancient Magical Artefacts Act of 1876, paragraph seven)_ that are to be sold, exhibited, or distributed, and that have not changed their owner, in the sense of multiple members of a single bloodline, for at least four generations are to be subject to the Standardised Magical Artefact Security Tests. (…)”

_The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has provided their approval to hire an external contractor to create the full documentation required to further your case._

_The assigned, Ministry-approved private contractor is:_

**Weasley’s Dispelling Company Ltd**

**__** _A licensed Curse-Breaker was assigned to your case. Your assigned Curse-Breaker is:_

**Potter, Harry James**

**__** _Our contractor will conduct a full-fledged investigation of all the objects in your possession and determine the ones that are eligible for sale, distribution, and/or exhibition. Objects that do not pass the Standardised Magical Artefact Security Tests (for details, please refer to the Ancient Magical Artefacts Act of 1876, Addendum Four) will either be confiscated for further research at the Department of Mysteries or destroyed (for details, please refer to the Ancient Magical Artefacts Act of 1876, Addendum Two). A detailed report created by the contractor, and signed by the Master of the House will then be forwarded to the Ministry for further processing._

_The details of the handover will be communicated in a separate letter after the paperwork is complete._

_We are expecting your confirmation by owl in the next three working days._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Adela Elks_

_Senior Assistant, Subdepartment of Outsourcing, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

  


Draco crumpled up the letter, threw it into the fireplace, and took a deep breath, sitting back in his favourite wingback chair (George III, tufted green leather, 1790).

If Pansy weren’t in Paris right now, planning a wedding she didn’t really want, she’d be ransacking his liquor cabinet. Or maybe she’d even go straight for the cellar had it so happened she wasn’t the one to break it off. She’d uncork a dusty bottle of red Pauillac and say something about Draco getting over himself, and Draco would sit on the big barrel in the corner and say something about pots and kettles. They’d get positively trollied and top the evening off with a rancid shot of Sobering Potion before bed, and then Draco would wake up the next morning and call the whole thing off, and keep existing among his numerous treasures, proudly living up to his birth name.

He sort of wished Pansy _were_ there, so he could tell her to sod off.

Draco watched the parchment, as dry as the words it carried, quickly catch fire, and rode out the shiver zinging across his back. Memories from one particular night, two years ago, assaulted him with renewed intensity.

It was the Annual Interdepartmental Ministry Christmas Party, as long and boring as its name. With that many years after the War under his belt, Draco had sat at the Wizengamot table, squeezed between judges and fellow attorneys as their equal, ironically subjected to criminal amounts of arse-licking and glad-handing those vultures enjoyed so much. The only perk of those atrocious galas was that the seating chart always remained unchanged, for tens of years before, and most likely for the years to come. And that meant Draco got to watch Potter at the other end of the room, just as bored and annoyed as Draco was, with an added bonus of small flocks of obsequious sycophants circling the room to get him alone for at least a minute.

They had been civil at the time, maybe even relatively friendly, and long-over their shared past. Their encounters at the Ministry had usually gone down to a few lingering glances a day when they passed each other in the Ministry halls, handshakes here and there—ones that lasted just a second too long—and maybe sometimes sharing a table in the cafeteria, always sitting too close for it to be a coincidence.

When Draco saw Potter slip out to the terrace, his need to get some air felt somewhat justified, seeing that even the Saviour himself decided to ditch his table.

He found Potter smoking a Muggle cigarette, of all things.

“You smoke?” He asked abruptly, leaning on the marble railing, close enough to brush his shoulder against Potter’s.

“Hardly,” Potter replied and moved a little closer, just a fraction of an inch, enough for it to go unnoticed from the outside.

Draco didn’t know what to think about that, so he asked, “Got one more of those?”

“No,” Potter said on an exhale, his voice strangely distorted by the billows of smoke, thick and white against the cold December air. “But I’m willing to share,” he added and took another drag.

Draco shrugged and, just as he was reaching out to take the fag, Potter’s cold fingers wrapped around his jaw and then, cool, soft lips encircled his own; Draco breathed the smoke in on instinct, straight out of Potters lungs. They stayed like that for a few more seconds, lips still touching, and Potter deepened it, inch by inch, until he carefully coaxed Draco’s mouth open, slid his tongue inside, and right then, Draco stopped thinking altogether.

“You’re drunk,” Draco breathed against Potter’s lips, feeling his head spin. The smoke. It was the smoke. He didn’t have an explanation as to why he was half-hard, though.

“Did they spike the pumpkin juice?” Draco frowned at that, and Potter laughed, a soft, private sound. “Wanted to do it for a while. Draco.”

 _Draco_. His first name coming out of that mouth must have sounded like the filthiest come-on because five minutes later, Draco was devouring Potter against the railing, licking up the thick tendon in his neck, and Potter, face flushed, eyes nearly black, was asking if Draco wanted to go somewhere more private.

They ended up in another wing, just to be safe, locking themselves in a small utility closet, and Draco still remembered the moment he first slid his cock inside Potter’s arse. He sometimes thought about the way Potter kissed him as if he was a starving man, the way he ripped Draco’s shirt open and swirled that sinful tongue around his nipples. He remembered every second. The hoarse moans Potter had let out on every thrust still rang in Draco’s ears on the odd night when he woke up with a start in a pool of his own come. The feel of that thick cock in Draco’s fist, and its wet slaps against Potter’s taut stomach as Draco pressed deeper inside of him. Once every few months, he had to walk through that same corridor and pass the door to that closet, and every time, Draco wondered how many times Potter himself wandered these halls, if he thought about them fucking at all, and if he ever wanted it to happen again.

After they were done, Potter gave him a lopsided smile, almost a little sad, and kissed him, debilitatingly sweet, while he tucked Draco back in his trousers. Before he closed the door behind him, Potter paused, hesitant, and said he’d see Draco around.

One didn’t simply _get over_ sex with Harry Potter.

What one could do, however, was find distractions. Distractions with long legs and muscled thighs, with warm, dark skin that smelled nothing like sandalwood, and with lips whose shape against Draco’s own was only a tiny bit off—just enough for Draco to fuck them a little harder to get it all out of his system.

He never did find any closure or get to explore what exactly was _with_ Potter that night, as one year ago, Potter had done the unexpected (to the public; Draco had always felt it was long overdue)—he had quit the Aurors and joined Bill Weasley’s Curse-Breaking company, seemingly on a whim, but not to anyone who had looked close enough.

And now, Junior Curse-Breaker Harry Potter was due to arrive at Malfoy Manor in three days time, to go through roughly sixty percent of Draco’s most prized possessions and determine if they could be deemed _safe_ , just enough to turn a profit. Draco knew they would sell, probably to some deranged _nouveau riche_ who was willing to pay a hefty margin just to have something special in stock to apologise to his bored wife if the need arose. Quite a few of the items belonged in a museum and Draco was definitely going to mention that, feeling strangely melancholic about them getting closed up in a vault, or worse, displayed near tacky, mismatched furniture.

He sat down at his desk and pulled out a fresh parchment to write down his reply.

  


* * *

  


Exactly three days later, Draco opened the door to see Harry Potter, his assigned Curse-Breaker, looking roguishly bloody handsome and maybe a tiny bit nervous, standing on his doorstep.

Potter wore a different kind of uniform these days, shedding the Auror crimson the general public was so keen on in favour of a fitted indigo jacket with a tight, neat row of onyx clasps going all the way up to his throat, the quality wool of its collar just barely grazing his adam’s apple. Draco knew how it felt under his teeth. So prim and proper, all buttoned up in his tidy jacket and tailored trousers—Curse-Breaker Potter, the one who killed a Dark Lord and commanded every room he entered like he owned it, and all Draco wanted was to have him on his knees—now more than ever, even after such a long time.

Potter shot Draco a lopsided smile. “Long time no see, yeah?”

  


* * *

  


Potter came every day at nine a.m. sharp. Every day, he had a messenger bag with him, filled to the brim with thick folders and paperwork, and an array of writing utensils clattering about—everything he needed to record all the work to be done and file his report for the DMLE. There was a certain irony in the fact that the man couldn’t seem to escape being employed by the bloody Ministry, directly or not. Draco told him just that and when Potter laughed, the low rumble of it rang in Draco’s ears until the end of the day.

Very quickly, they worked out a routine which was a safe solution to the whole affair, and a convenient one as well. Potter would come, they would have a cup of coffee in the drawing room, and Draco would lead him to the room with the objects that were on the agenda for the day. Depending on his own workload, Draco would sometimes stick around, answering Potter’s many questions, and not only about the antiques themselves, but about their origin and, in consequence, Draco’s family, the Manor, and all sorts of things.

He never asked if Draco _wanted to go somewhere more private_.

It was disconcerting, and maybe a tiny bit shocking, how well they got on, and how easily they jumped back into their soft sort of camaraderie, so vastly different than what they were at school, and so infuriatingly _not enough_ as opposed to what they became for that one night.

Instead, Draco watched him from afar, memorised the coordinates of each and every freckle, and thought about that one little curl of jet-black hair, right next to Potter’s ear, and imagined it brushing against the tip of his nose. He was downright disturbed by that indigo jacket, too, the enticing row of onyxes mocking his fingers that itched to open them one by one, to peel off everything that dwelled underneath and melt into that sandalwood-smelling skin like no time had passed.

He felt watched every step of the way, but it wasn’t _Auror Potter_ that gazed at Draco so intensely, it wasn’t even Curse-Breaker Potter, for that matter. It was Harry, who asked Draco to call him that one day, wearing a shy smile, eyebrows knitted and hopeful, and Draco’s entire mind was occupied with them ever since. Harry always paused when he saw Draco in the mornings, evidently pondering over his chosen attire—Draco kept reminding himself he was still in the comfort of his own home, and it wasn’t like Margaret Thatcher was visiting—he usually went for fitted linen shirts, simple charcoal slacks, always barefoot. There was one instance of a very old, very loose garnet sweater he got from Luna Lovegood of all people—and cherished quite a great amount—even though it was already coming apart and showing off a significant portion of his collarbone. Potter seemed very preoccupied with that single patch of skin and Draco wasn’t going to play an oblivious, blushing stripling or pretend he didn’t see it. In fact, that hot gaze only wanted Draco to ask Potter to put his mouth there and start sucking.

A week passed, another started and Potter kept working, meticulously going over the provided list of Draco’s possessions. It turned out Draco was more than helpful—Draco was _good_ at antiques, he knew their origins, the materials they were made of, the spells that might have been laced into the objects. At some point, they made a habit out of ending their day in Draco’s study, a large spacious room with two desks where they poured over their respective paperwork in companionable silence.

There were books, tens of books, spellbooks, old diaries, and encyclopaedias, some charmed, some bound in the rarest dragonhide, some with pages laced with real gold, or gemstones encrusted in their covers. Draco had no need for those, he’d rather had kept books that were safe to open, quick to access, and weren’t at risk of falling apart with each turn of the page. There was quite a lot of jewellery, too, and Potter’s mouth went slack at the number of expensive gemstones and the sheer weight of all the gold Draco withdrew from the family vault. He would get a little quiet at times, especially when he was reminded that all of that gold was going to Mungo’s, to build that Mind-Healing ward. Draco supposed it struck a personal chord with Harry, with all of them, at some capacity, and he was transfixed with how soft Harry’s face went, when he glanced at Draco and smiled, tilting his head.

There were also dangerous objects, ones imbued with old, dark magic—creepy figurines that made an individual cough blood when held with bare hands, armchairs one could never get out of, or an inconspicuous music box that, when open, played a melody that made them both extremely sleepy, and Harry managed to snap out of it and shut it closed at the last second. Every time they stumbled upon an object like that, Draco would have to go all day in a state of constant half-arousal, watching Potter being competent, and powerful, and focused. Draco had a hard time wondering where else that focus could be directed.

The work was going slowly, but steadily, and it was hard, sometimes, especially with things that belonged to his father. Harry had a specific approach to those, never letting Draco feel he pitied either him or his failure of a father, but rather steering the conversation into a place they both felt comfortable with. It was quite amusing, to see Harry staring at an array of Muggle arms and weapons, items he would have never associated with a wizard who spent so much time trying to prove he was one in the purest form.

Harry carefully took a long firearm out of its case (XVIII Century British Commercial Musket, with a nice mottled patina on the barrel) and stared at Draco with raised eyebrows, clearly having trouble with imagining Lucius ever wielding such a weapon. Draco, splayed in his favourite chaise lounge in the drawing room, looked up from a court order he was going over and chuckled, feeling strangely giddy with the way Harry’s face scrunched. He explained how some wizards simply appreciated the aesthetic and knew that, in times of need, objects like that would sell quick and easy as opposed to large, impractical furniture and art, or outlandishly expensive and suspicious diamonds. His father was, indeed, a proper wanker, but the man had always known his way around money—he would go on about diversifying assets, investments, and stocks, and while Draco didn’t remember much of it anymore, he knew there were certain _assets_ he’d gladly diversify himself.

“It’s worth at least a thousand Galleons,” Harry said with a note of awe after he was done with his Diagnostic Spells.

“I am aware.”

“Your father would flip,” he said softly, smiling like the devil.

Draco asked, “Your point?” And spread himself more comfortably in the chaise lounge. “The only flipping my father can do right now is in the comfort of his own grave, so the decision was mine to make.”

Harry was quiet for a while, murmuring ominous incantations and taking notes in his file every two spells or so. He was using a Muggle pen and Draco was briefly distracted thinking about how stupid some wizarding quirks and traditions were. “You’re doing something good here,” Harry finally said, looking up and down Draco’s body splayed in the chair. It made his skin tingle, eliciting an obstinate itch to either spread his legs a little wider or cover himself from head to toe. Anything, really, to make something happen.

Draco made a disgusted sound and Harry laughed for real this time. “Alas, we could only put in so many antiques without an Extension Charm on the coffin, though I’m sure he’ll haunt me for that musket at some point in the future.”

“Wow, right,” Harry said, “they banned those, didn’t they?”

“Cause cave-ins when they expire,” Draco shrugged.

“I like the irony,” Harry said.

Draco supposed he had a point.

  


* * *

  


“I see you eyeing it, you know,” Draco said one afternoon, looking over some abysmally boring paperwork and signing off reports to Floo back to the office.

He had filed a leave request due to the whole Antiques Roadshow project, seeing it was the Ministry itself that had ordered it, and his superiors at the Wizengamot not only asked he kept working from the Manor—the paranoid old bats wanted all the reports Flooed directly to them instead of having the papers owled, grumbling about interceptions and Muggle airplanes. Draco only rolled his eyes, yet to learn about an owl that flew that high.

Draco heard Potter stop scrawling in his reports, felt his hot gaze; he took a pinch of Floo Powder from an ornate little shelf screwed to the mantle and threw it into the flames along with the letter, whispering the destination.

“It?” Potter finally asked, watching Draco over a thirty-five piece Chamberlains Worcester tea set (hand-painted porcelain, 1790, a gorgeous piece Draco was more than a little nostalgic to part with), originally bought by Draco’s great-great-great-grandfather and charmed to keep the tea hot indefinitely. Now, however, the results… varied, to say the least, if the slight crease between Potter’s eyebrows was anything to go by. He sat at the other desk, the heavy, polished oak cluttered with an advanced reagent set to test whether the pot or the cups were the culprit; numerous Detection and Analysis Spells quietly chimed and glimmered around his head while he worked, unaware what a distraction he was being.

Draco put down his quill (yet another irrational fear of old reactionists, that Muggle ink would somehow make their paperwork less pompous or prominent) and folded his hands atop the next parchment in his pile. He inclined his head towards the massive, strange-looking chair displayed in front of the largest window in the study. It was one of Draco’s favourite showpieces, and possibly the luckiest find in his collection.

Potter cleared his throat, and shrugged. “Looks like a torture device,” he said, squinting. “Or something… medical. Painful.”

Draco huffed, not bothering to hide his smile. “Quite the contrary, actually,” he said, biting his lip. “May I present, _le siège d’amour_ , the love chair.”

The tense silence that fell upon the room would have been disconcerting if it weren’t for the delicious little flush slowly taking over Potter’s face. It made his freckles stand out and something stirred in Draco’s stomach. Seeing Potter’s questioning glance, he continued.

“Originally built for the Prince of Wales, and later, our very own king, Edward VII,” he recited smoothly as if he was presenting a curious trinket to a potential buyer. “I must admit, it was an impulse purchase but—well, look at it.”

And Potter did look. He _stared_ , with a mix of curiosity and some sort of innocent abashment evident on his face. “So when you say— Love chair, you mean,” he swallowed.

“Precisely,” Draco smiled, flashing his teeth. “It was made— _to measure_ —in 1890 and delivered to the Parisian bordello _Le Chabanais_ for the prince to, ah, _indulge_ in,” he said. “Mind you, this isn’t the original. Still, it’s one of the three known examples based on the original design.”

Potter tilted his head and asked, “And how would one—”

A slowly growing fire crawled down Draco’s back, taking the blood in his veins to a place that was already so hard to control in Potter’s presence. “See the footrests up there?” He pointed at the burnished golden bearings attached to both sides of the seat, strangely glad his hand didn’t waver. “Yes,” he murmured, watching Potter’s eyes darken. “And the ones below, near the base?” Draco asked in a low voice. Potter licked his lips, and then, Draco was sure he was thinking the same thing. “It is said the king could entertain himself with two ladies at the same time, however, I have seen configurations including up to six people—”

“Six peop— How?” Potter threw him a heated glance, one Draco wasn’t supposed to see. “Did you,” he raised his eyebrows in question.

Draco laughed. “No, I have never used it for its intended purpose,” Draco said, deliberately hinting there was a _but_ , choosing to keep the teasing going for a little longer.

There was a rustle of paper as Potter skimmed his files. “I didn’t see it on the list,” he said.

“Oh, that’s because I’m keeping it,” Draco replied and smirked. “It looks quite lovely in this room.”

  


* * *

  


That night, after Potter had left, Draco forwent waiting a polite amount of time before going straight to his bedroom. Halfway up the stairs, he was already palming at the front of his trousers, hissing at the pressure after being forced to go half-hard for most of the day. As soon as the door closed behind him, Draco, without the usual finesse, Vanished his clothes, threw his wand onto the dresser, and climbed atop his bed.

The cool, black silk made him shiver on contact as he took himself into his hand and let out a breath he felt he’d been holding at least all day, if not for longer, much longer than he’d care to admit. His thoughts immediately centred on Potter as his wrist moved in a steady rhythm, squeezing and twisting on every upstroke, his chest rising and falling rapidly, faster, higher, in tandem with the arousal unfurling at his very core. With his other hand clutching the sheets, Draco brought himself off to memories from two years ago, blurred and intertwined between images of Harry now, of his watchful glances and lingering hands, and his sandalwood scent, just as sweet and heady as Draco remembered.

His love for all things dainty and old once again proved to be so much more than a wealthy man’s foible when he reached into the hidden compartment in his bed’s headboard (Italian, carved walnut, made in the thirties), fishing out a small bottle of lube. A small bottle for small emergencies which was laughable, considering how completely and utterly gone Draco was.

 _Prissy, oblivious Curse-Breaker Potter_ , Draco thought, groaning at the slippery pressure around his cock, _with his large green eyes, and soft lips, and freckles_. He moaned and sped up his movements, thinking about coming all over those gorgeous freckles, wondering if Potter would have let him, if he would have liked it. The things he wanted to do to Potter, _with_ him, filled Draco with the strangest mix of dread and exhilaration, made his cock leak and his heart flutter. And it wasn’t Potter anymore, was it? It was Harry; Harry’s lips wrapped around him, Harry’s hands roaming over Draco's skin, Harry’s fingers in Draco's mouth. Under him, around him, inside him. Harry, Harry, _Harry_.

And then, there was the love chair, Harry’s obvious curiosity, the way his canine dug into his lower lip as Draco described its purpose, and Draco knew _that_ look, it was Potter, pure and distilled, down to his very essence—stupidly adventurous, bright, and _alive—_ and Draco wanted to layer his lungs with it. It was the thought of fucking Potter in that blasted chair, now more of a possibility than a feeble fantasy, that brought Draco over the edge; his back arched and taut, Draco rode out his orgasm in shivery waves, spilling all over his hand and stomach.

He lay there for a while, covered in his own mess, and thought how completely and royally fucked he was—all because of an ex-enemy who wore sexy clothes and wasn’t afraid to be mean to him.

  


* * *

  


Something bad finally happened by the end of the second week, just like it ought to in a house filled with mysterious antiques, most imbued with magic older than said house’s foundations. It was a quiet evening, with both of them sorting out some paperwork and preparing a few trinkets to check out for the next day. Draco was lounging in a light, emerald silk robe with gold trimmings and a gold-woven peacock feather on the back. It was cut off over his knees and Draco never wore anything under it, and the way Harry stared at him from time to time made something visceral stir in his stomach.

It was a jewellery box, of all things (French, art nouveau, silvered copper with intricate carvings depicting various kinds of flying creatures, made around 1910)—nothing as obvious as some of the dusty, dragon leatherbound spellbooks, and nothing as expected as, perhaps, one of the milky glass potion vials with faded labels, filled with sizzling, black concoctions. Not even something spectacular, like a bottomless, mahogany footlocker that should have led to hell, or at least Azkaban, or maybe one of those angel statues Draco had once read about, ones that would move when not observed (alas, all the angel statues in the Manor—and there were exactly thirty-six—were perfectly dull and thoroughly inanimate).

The tarnished culprit had caught Draco unaware; he thought it was one of his mother’s, left behind in her rush to retire to Saint-Raphaël after his father’s death, and he had opened it only to find it empty. He was examining the red fabric lining when the box spewed a puff of pink smoke right into his face, thankfully only sending him into a coughing fit rather than an early grave.

Harry was next to him in seconds. “What the fuck was that?”

“I—” Draco choked out between coughs, “It was just some mist, I,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. He didn’t feel any different and reckoned it might have been some long-withered beauty spell but Harry gently moved his hands away from his face and watched him for too long, his eyes lingering on Draco’s lips of all places.

Warm fingers wrapped around his elbow and Draco was led to the large sofa that stood against the window. Harry sat them down and started casting without a word, the complicated incantations falling off his tongue in a gentle susurration, and the tense crease in his brow slowly dissipated when the diagnostics didn’t indicate any harm. It was awfully distracting, to have him so close, with his scent, and voice, and that jacket with the onyx clasps, and all Draco could do was clench his teeth in that familiar, aristocratic way so no-one would notice. What was worse, Potter was entirely non-smug about it—just calm and focused, casting with razor-sharp efficiency and he looked so bloody _competent_ , Draco was glad for the abundance of silk folds around his hips.

“It’s,” Harry huffed with some sort of relieved amusement, putting his wand down. “It’s perfume. Magical, but still—just perfume.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What kind of magical?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said, too off-handedly for Draco not to worry about it.

“Harry.”

“It’s laced with, uh,” he deflated. “With a mild Lust Potion, all right? But—”

“Lust Potion.” Draco swallowed thickly. “So. Is it working? Do you feel a sudden and urgent need to have your way with me on this couch?” He asked, unable to stop himself, and even managing a slight smile.

“It’s— It was specifically brewed to attract women,” Harry said quietly and moved his hand an inch, like he was reaching out, but decided against it, somewhat forcefully putting it back in his lap.

“You don’t, then,” Draco said more than asked and Harry stared at him intently when he next spoke.

“I didn’t say that.”

The room was silent—even the carved grandfather clock was already sealed away—and all Draco could hear was his own blood, rushing along his body in all the directions leading to reckless decisions. With his stomach somewhere around his throat, he reached out and tucked a single silky, dark lock behind Harry’s ear, letting his hand fall back right next to Harry’s bent leg.

“Remember,” Harry murmured and Draco raised an eyebrow, his heart speeding up a fraction. “Remember that Ministry Gala? Two years ago, we—”

“—fucked in a closet, yes,” Draco finished bluntly, horrified at how gauche that was. He traced his index finger over Harry’s thigh, light like a feather, almost expecting sparks to fly and Harry laughed softly.

Harry’s voice was low when he found his next words. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The whole two weeks, I thought about us— And—” he swallowed. “And before that, too.”

With a pounding heart, Draco lifted his hand to cup Harry’s face and something unfurled beneath his ribs when Harry leaned into the touch. “I’m thinking about it right now,” he whispered.

“We never talked about it,” Harry said carefully.

“I thought you didn’t want to.”

“I thought you… moved on, I suppose.”

“Does this,” Draco whispered, and leaned in, and touched Harry’s lips with his own, “feel like I’ve moved on?”

After that, there was a breath, a sharp intake of air, and Harry was kissing him, finally, wrapping those toned arms around Draco’s waist, nearly hauling him up into his lap, and their mouths opened on instinct, both moaning softly into the hot slide of tongues. He tasted exactly the same as he did back then, and Draco cursed distractions because no-one came even close to _this_.

Harry Potter kissed like he meant it, with a hot-focused intensity that should have landed him a prominent Seeker position but instead, threw him into a life on the edge and, in consequence, straight into Draco’s arms, fitting in that jagged space like he belonged there all along. He gasped hotly into Draco’s mouth and moved to kiss down his neck, the slow drag of his teeth setting Draco’s skin aflame. It wasn’t enough, Draco needed to be _closer_ so he hoisted him back up by the hair and coaxed his mouth open with his tongue, eliciting a desperate groan from the back of Harry’s throat.

He was being nice about it, too, knowing full well Draco was naked under that robe, settling his hands on Draco’s arse and kneading the flesh in lazy circles, each roll bringing them closer together. The top two buttons of that cursed jacked came undone and Draco pulled it back, laving Harry's collarbone with slow licks that then turned into hungry sucking, and Harry shook against him with his fingers twisted in Draco’s hair.

Content with the attentions he gave to Harry’s neck, Draco looked up and paused. Harry looked positively debauched, with tousled, dark curls, half-hard against Draco’s hip, and Draco kissed up, and up, until he realised that Harry’s eyes were focused on one object in the room.

_The chair._

“Oh,” Draco breathed out quietly, right against Harry’s temple. “You twisted thing,” he murmured, dipping down for a deep kiss. “You genius deviant, Potter, you—” Draco praised, touching Harry’s neck and chest, following it with lips and tongue as Harry laughed weakly and ran his fingers through Draco’s hair.

He leaned back, but not before sealing the last blooming lovebite with a soft lick, and looked down at Harry, and intertwined their fingers. “Shall we follow in the footsteps of our English forefathers, then?”

“I—” Harry started and hummed, baring his neck for Draco to keep devouring.

“I assure you it’s been thoroughly cleaned,” Draco murmured, already getting hard—at the solid feel of Harry under him, at the possibility of fucking him in the infamous sinner’s chair.

“It’s an _antique_ ,” Harry whispered into Draco's mouth, his tone almost scandalized but quickly betrayed by a small shiver somewhere around his hips.

“And I am a _wizard_ ,” Draco said darkly and paused. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d worry about upholstery, of all things,” he said and Harry chuckled.

They slowed down a bit but still kissed, dizzily, with Harry’s mouth seeking out Draco’s, with soft, slow licks right at the seam of the other’s lips, and it quickly turned into something more urgent, with dragging hips and low moans.

“I want you,” Harry whispered into his ear, seeming undecided whether to lick or bite, overwhelmed with the possibilities.

Draco only muttered, “Take off your clothes,” before diving back to Harry’s mouth while he undid his belt. The metallic sound spurred Harry into action as they both fumbled with the buckle, brushing the strings of Draco’s robe out of the way. Harry barely started to slide his trousers down when Draco gently grabbed his wrist.

“Leave the boots,” he said, and paused as soon as Harry looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Unless—” Draco shook his head. “Perish the thought,” he said and smiled, cradling Harry’s jaw in his palm. “I want you bare.”

“Everything?”

“Everything,” Draco said, kissing him chastely, and started unclasping those onyx fastenings one by one, unpeeling the layers of wool and cotton and kissing over every inch of bronze skin he exposed. By the time he had Harry naked and panting on the sofa, he was fully hard, the silky robe unable to conceal his arousal any longer.

He stood up, pulling Harry up by his hand and he went willingly, in all his flushed beauty, unabashed by the fact he was completely nude. Draco felt his own cock, plump and heavy between his legs and even though they only needed to cross the study, he pulled Harry closer, until they touched through the silk. Unable to wait any longer, Harry untied the string on the robe and pressed them flush, skin to hot skin, tugging the robe down to Draco’s elbows.

“God, Draco,” he gasped between kisses, “fuck me. Fuck me on that thing, I want—”

Draco nodded frantically, simply said, “Yes,” and, “fuck, you’re wet,” pressing his forehead against Harry’s.

They breathed, holding each other for a few seconds and then, Draco gently pushed him towards the love chair—an apt name, even though Draco wasn’t quite ready to put a name to what they were doing. The sole fact there might have been a name scared the shit out of him until Harry kissed him, leaning against the seat.

Draco helped him up, and Harry lay back, holding onto the two vertical, ornate handles on each side. Gently, he lifted Harry’s legs up, one by one, and placed his feet in the golden stirrups.

And then, his mouth went slack in a soft gasp.

Draco stared at his lover, shamelessly spread open for him, and silently blessed their ancestors for their filthy ingenuity. Harry looked back at him with wide pupils and a soft smile, propped up on his elbows, and Draco’s eyes skitted across his body, undecided what to admire first. He looked positively sinful, laid out before Draco like that, hard and flushed, and absolutely breathtaking. All of him: his shoulders and biceps barely fitting into a seat designed for a smaller, female frame; his stomach, taut and toned, with the softest rolls at the bottom; his cock, glistening wet and flushed a pretty red.

“Look at you,” Draco whispered, dipping down to kiss his calves, the insides of his knees, going lower to the soft flesh of his thighs. “It’s like you were made to be splayed across expensive things,” he murmured, brushing his hands all over the taut muscles, smiling against the hot skin as Harry gasped and arched under the attention. “And kissed,” he whispered, kissing over his sternum, “and licked,” he added, sucking a nipple between his teeth, “and worshipped.” They both gasped as Draco leaned over to kiss him and their cocks slid together, almost painfully hard at this point.

“I didn’t get to do this last time,” Draco murmured against his lips, and promptly sank down onto his knees. “And what a shame,” he said in a low voice when once again, the architecture of the chair rendered him breathless as his face was now perfectly level with Harry’s exposed crotch.

Draco couldn’t stop himself from immediately having a taste, dragging his tongue over the puckered muscle and humming at the loud moan the ripped out of Harry. “Holy shit, Draco— Oh my _god_ ,” he gasped, thighs already shaking as Draco massaged his hole with the pad of his index finger, and buried his nose in the soft flesh between Harry’s thigh and his cock. Gods, he smelled amazing there, his scent was the strongest in that intimate place, heady and delicious. Draco dived back in, laving his hole with hard, stabbing licks, until he breached the muscle and slid his tongue inside.

Harry was losing his mind above him, his hands clutching the wooden handles so hard, they would have broken if it weren’t for the Protective and Strengthening Charms Draco carefully laced into every single one of his treasures. He groaned, and keened, and Draco ate him ardently, slowly adding one, and then two fingers alongside his tongue.

Deliberately, he didn’t go anywhere near Harry’s cock, not yet—Draco wanted him desperate, begging, wanted to take care of him so Harry could lay back and enjoy the ride. His legs were bent at an angle that didn’t allow much movement so Draco was surprised to feel Harry’s fingers tangling in his hair and pulling.

“Up, _up_ ,” Harry gasped, “Draco, come up here.”

Draco did, leaning over his supine form, and kissed him, unbothered by all the saliva and the dull ache in his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry murmured, sucking on his lower lip. “Gods, _nothing_ is wrong right now,” he said into Draco’s open mouth. “Wanna see you.”

Awestruck, Draco looked down, took the time to take him all in; pliant like honey, melting under his hands onto the seat, Harry Potter made the most gorgeous bottom. The allure lay in his extraordinarily competent and commanding demeanour, so harshly contrasting with how he was in bed, how this beautiful, malleable side came to life. And Harry was truly beautiful, inside and out, and Draco was sure there was something about his hands and lips, and smile, but his poor mind, now fogged with nearly numbing desire, was currently most partial to the greedy little hole he’d just sucked on, now all wet and pink, and his perfect, tight bollocks and flushed cock. Draco pressed forwards until he was lined up, sliding the head of his cock between Harry’s cheeks, up and down, and letting out a ragged breath with every stroke.

The chair was, indeed, made to measure, however, Draco remembered the late king was a man of quite a bulkier posture than himself. He decided against standing in the metal placements, carefully stepping onto the cushioned base—he needed to be closer, to touch Harry, needed as much skin contact as physically possible.

Harry met him halfway as he propped himself up on one elbow and dragged Draco down by the neck to claim his mouth. “Inside me,” he growled, “now.”

Draco reached into the pocket of his robe that still hung somewhere halfway down his back and quickly cast some basic sex spells. And then, he slowly pushed inside the welcoming heat of Harry’s body, his eyes rolling back with pleasure; it was just like their last time, except it was nothing like it. If it were up to him, Draco would never take Harry from behind again if that meant not getting to see the blissful, fuck-drunk expression on his face. He got to see Harry completely open and bare, looking all spaced-out and tangled, and Draco pushed all the way inside, up to the hilt, thinking he would now get to untangle him.

“Fuck! Yes, right there,” Harry gasped, swallowing air in large gulps, still clutching Draco’s neck. “How do you do that—” he moaned, clenching around him, “every fucking time,” and Draco let out a strained laugh and canted his hips back, and forwards again, setting a lazy, dragging rhythm, leaning over Harry to catch his lips.

The chair didn’t even creak, holding the weight of two grown men with the help of some hefty magic, and Draco picked up the pace, fucking into Harry fast and hard, holding him by the ribs and revelling in the wet, slapping sounds of flesh against flesh. They didn’t really need any extra lubrication—Harry was already all wet with his saliva, and Draco’s cock had been leaking since they started rutting on the couch, and it only added an extra edge to the fucking, an _almost-too-much_ feeling, reflected in Harry’s choked mewls as Draco relentlessly slammed into him again, again, and again.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, never stopping his movements, gasping the words into Harry’s mouth. “I could fuck you every day,” he choked out, feeling his bollocks tighten as the bubbling heat of his orgasm slowly rose at the base of his spine. Taking Harry’s cock into his hand, Draco wanked him in time with his thrusts, and Harry stared right at him with open mouth and knitted eyebrows as their shared pleasure mounted closer and closer to the edge.

“Yes,” Harry breathed, “So good— just like that, harder, _fuck_ —” He babbled and then froze, string-taut and drenched in sweat, and came, shooting all over his chest and Draco’s fist. It only took seeing Harry helplessly shake in the seat, his hole clenching tight around his cock, and Draco was coming too, letting out a loud moan into Harry’s open mouth.

They rode out the aftershocks, fully tangled in the other’s arms, and when Draco’s limp cock finally slid out, he gently helped Harry take his legs off the metal bearings and get out of the chair. As soon as they stood on solid ground, Harry staggered a little, and Draco wrapped an arm around his waist—he could imagine the strain in his thighs from being in that position for so long. He cradled Harry’s face in his hand and Apparated them straight to his bedroom.

  


  


  


* * *

  


“Are you sore?” Draco whispered into the dark.

They lay on top of the sheets, cooling down as the sweat of their fucking dried off their flushed skin, with Draco breathing in the smell of sandalwood, tender fingers gently probing and massaging at Harry’s fucked-out hole.

“I’m,” Harry muttered, sagging against him. “Loose.” Draco chuckled, and pulled him into his arms.

“I almost expect you to have a smoke,” Draco said.

“It would feel correct, wouldn’t it?” Harry sighed. “But no,” he pressed a kiss to Draco’s pectoral. “Got better things to get addicted to.” It made Draco’s heart leap.

Harry looked up at him, almost shyly, and softly pressed their lips together, not really kissing, just a steady, warm touch. “Don’t move on,” he said, a little abruptly.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Draco murmured, slowly coaxing Harry’s mouth open.

Harry hummed into the kiss and said, “Good.” And then, “I’m staying the night.”

“Are you now?”

“You’ve been sprayed with… vintage woman-catnip,” he said gravely. “I need to make sure nobody snatches you.”

Draco snorted. “God forbid, seeing I’ve already been… _snatched_.”

“This time for good, I hope?”

Draco settled deeper into the cradle of his arms. “This time for good.”

**Author's Note:**

> The love chair our boys have sex on exists, and it can be yours for just fifty-seven thousand euros! Check it out [here](https://www.1stdibs.co.uk/furniture/seating/chairs/siege-damour-love-chair/id-f_14926161/). All the other mentioned antiques are also real, I might add the links if someone's curious!
> 
> Here are some of the other items! -- [tea set](https://www.1stdibs.co.uk/furniture/dining-entertaining/tea-sets/antique-chamberlain-worcester-white-floral-porcelain-tea-service-18th-century/id-f_11893151/) \-- [Draco's chair](https://www.1stdibs.co.uk/furniture/seating/wingback-chairs/18th-century-georgian-leather-wing-chair/id-f_6665353/) \-- [jewellery box](https://www.1stdibs.co.uk/furniture/decorative-objects/boxes/jewelry-boxes/france-art-nouveau-silvered-jewelry-box-casket-circa-1900/id-f_12990651/) \-- [bed frame](https://www.1stdibs.co.uk/furniture/more-furniture-collectibles/bedroom-furniture/beds-frames/antique-walnut-carved-king-sized-bed-headboard-foot-board-side-rails/id-f_21623232/)


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